


A Pastime for Cats

by chiswickflo



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiswickflo/pseuds/chiswickflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill from the BBC Musketeers kink meme on Dreamwidth: </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Let's give Athos a kitty to cheer him up. Maybe a puppy as well. I just want him happy okay.</i></p><p> </p><p>My contribution to the kink meme turned out to be one of the most tooth-rottingly sweet and literally fluffy things I've ever written. Welp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Oh, good, it's you,' says Madame Bonacieux when Athos turns up to haul d'Artagnan out of bed and down to the salle d'armes. It's been a matter of concern to Athos for some time that while d'Artagnan's attack is good if a touch impulsive, his defence is appallingly shoddy; he barely even bothers to parry most times, instead choosing to hurl himself at his opponent in a gorgeous and unstoppable flèche. It's a good tactic with barely any fault to its execution but it is already becoming predictable, something which is sure to get d'Artagnan into even more trouble than he manages now. So much of Athos's mind is committed to d'Artagnan's swordsmanship that he barely takes any notice of the little Madame when she flings the door open but her words and her evident relief upon seeing him gives Athos pause. Nobody's ever relieved to see him; something must be truly wrong in this household. 

'Do you require the aid of a King's Musketeer, Madame?' he says. She's always struck him as a terrifyingly competent woman, but if there is something she cannot deal with- 

'Yes,' she says grimly. 'Come with me. Right now. I need aid that only you can provide.' 

Athos shrugs, removes his hat as he ducks under the lintel, and follows her through the house. As they mount the stairs, he checks his weapons surreptitiously and already has his sword loosened in the sheath when Madame Bonacieux stops outside an open door and points through it without saying a word, her soft mouth set in a line. He steps into the room as silently, prepared for anything-

'Athos!' says d'Artagnan from the bed, giving him the sunniest of smiles. Athos stops, sighs, shoves his sword back into the scabbard and rounds on Constance. 

'This?' he says, raising an eyebrow. 'This was your emergency?' 

'I didn't say it was an emergency,' says Constance, scowling at him. 'I said it was something that only you could help with. You're his superior or his mentor or something: you talk to him, because the good Lord knows he won't listen to me!' Her voice rises at the end until she's shouting at d'Artagnan, oblivious as he continues to beam at the litter of kittens in his lap as they tumble over each other, mewing and blindly butting against d'Artagnan's crossed legs. 

'He can't keep them,' scolds Madame Bonacieux. 'If my husband finds out- Well, I wouldn't give a sou for your chances. No pets; it said so in the lease. He'll throw you out into the streets.'

'I didn't sign a lease,' says d'Artagnan, finally joining the conversation as he looks up, confused. 

'Then he'll throw you out into the streets for illegal tenancy,' says Madame, rolling her eyes. 'Just get rid of them, d'Artagnan. They can't stay.' 

'But Constance-' The boy pouts at her, and holds up one of the kittens which bats its small paws in the air and makes the saddest excuse for a hiss Athos has ever heard. The kitten trails off at the end as if even it's not convinced and suspects this is just one of many indignities the coming day will bring. Athos knows how it feels. He sighs and wipes a hand over his face wearily. 

'How many of the beasts are there, d'Artagnan?'

'Uh, four,' says d'Artagnan. 'There were five, but-'

'One of them died during the night,' Madame Bonacieux contributes quietly from the door, her face softening unconsciously as she watches d'Artagnan duck his head and attend more closely to the surviving kittens. 'He did his best but without the mother cat- Anyway,' she says more briskly, straightening up as if she thinks she's revealed too much, 'D'Artaganan and his brood are your problem now, sir. I beg you will resolve this issue.'

'The Musketeers are the King's own Royal Guard, Madame,' he says, resolutely ignoring d'Artagnan cooing at the wretched creatures. 'We are guardians of justice, defenders of Paris, and protectors of the King's person. Kittens are not our department.' 

'I am not asking you to mobilise the kittens, Monsieur,' she says. 'Only d'Artagnan. I assume you can manage that, given your regiment's reputation for strict military order?' Her skeptical expression makes it very clear what she thinks of the Musketeers' ability to regulate themselves, let alone others. If he weren't quite so put out, Athos might concede the point. 

Instead, he acquiesces to her request with as little grace as he can get away with while still remaining a gentleman, and waits for her to sweep away, satisfied, before he says, 'D'Artagnan-'

D'Artagnan sighs. 'I know,' he says. 'But they're so small, Athos, and I can't just leave them to fend for themselves. And it's nice having a cat around. We always had a cat back home; just mousers, obviously, farm cats, but my father always said it was good luck to have a cat around. He- Never mind,' he says, waving a hand and straightening out of his attentive pose over the kittens. 'Sorry. That's not- I just got a bit homesick, I suppose.'

Athos sighs again and rubs with a forefinger at where a headache is already building. Once again, he is bewildered by d'Artagnan's ability to blunder into these ridiculous situations and then drag everyone along in his wake. He is even more bewildered at the fact that all he feels these days when called upon to drag the boy out of some scrape or other is a resigned fondness. 

'Four, did you say?' 

D'Artagnan's face brightens with hope and that irrepressible smile. 

'I could be measuring them up for a sack in the river,' Athos feels obliged to point out. 

'You're not,' d'Artagnan says confidently. 'You have a plan, I can tell.'

'My plan is to get drunk,' Athos counters and then because for some inexplicable reason he does not like to see the boy disappointed, he adds, 'Or at least to have one drink at the tavern down the road. Which has, incidentally, a bloody awful rodent problem.' 

He ignores the way that his heart, thought by most including himself to be no more than a shrivelled old wineskin behind his breastbone, gives one swift, strong throb at the glance of gratitude and admiration d'Artagnan throws at him before turning his attention back to the kittens. Athos snorts to himself. _Ridiculous_. 

Three hours later, they're tired, scratched, and a little drunk. The inn-keeper had taken a while to come around to the idea that his patrons didn't feel that their meals were greatly improved by the taste of mouse droppings and Athos had had to expend a fair amount of coin on terrible wine while he explained why, in the long-term, a kitten would boost the tavern's income. Thankfully, the inn-keeper's five-year-old son had taken a liking to the small tabby as soon as he'd seen it, and that had been that. The second, a grey molly, had been taken by a ship's captain who had also been drinking in the tavern and who had contributed vigorously to the denunciation of the mouse-fouled stew. The resulting fellow feeling between himself and Athos about its shortcomings had doubtlessly eased the transaction but the man had seemed gentle and conscientious enough with the kitten, so Athos had few qualms about handing it over. Placing the third and fourth is however proving exponentially more difficult. He and d'Artagnan roam the streets for a while with a kitten apiece, asking in shops and at stalls whether anyone is in desperate need of a cat, but to no avail. 

The kitten in his charge takes to wriggling vigorously in his palm and trying to climb up the sleeve of his doublet, until out of sheer exasperation he grasps it by the scruff of the neck and swings it aloft so that he may glare at it admonishingly. It seems to have as much effect on the little beast as it does on d'Artagnan. At last he resigns himself to the fact that no one respects his authority and dumps the kitten on his shoulder: it scrabbles uncertainly and yowls down his ear before it latches onto the straps of his spaulder and settles down as a warm, squeaky little lump against his neck. 

He and d'Artagnan meet up in the deep shade of the grotto in the Luxembourg, and look at each other still with their assigned kittens; d'Artagnan's shoulders slump.

'Oh, come now,' says Athos, 'We're not done yet. I've a couple of cards still to play,' and is heartened when the corner of d'Artagnan's mouth kicks up. 

'What the hell is this?' says Treville when they finally make their way back to the barracks and into his office, interrupting a conference with his secretary, to deposit d'Artagnan's kitten on his desk. 

'It's a- kitten?' d'Artagnan says slowly. 

Treville sighs. 'I know it's a kitten, d'Artagnan. My long years in the service of the King have equipped me to identify any number of animals, vegetables, minerals, and misdemeanours. But what is it doing in my office and on top of a particularly pressing and caustic memo from the Duc de Lorraine? Actually, I'm not that bothered about that last. If you wish to piss on it,' he tells the kitten, 'I would have no great objection. Not only is he the Prince's creature, his secretary's penmanship is execrable.' 

'See,' says d'Artagnan encouragingly, 'you two are already making friends.' 

The look in Treville's eyes when he raises his head is more frigid than a deep winter in Burgundy. 'Am I so desperately in need of friends, then, Monsieur, that my Musketeers must needs foist strays upon me?' 

'In fairness,' says Athos, recklessly drawing the Captain's ire, 'that's how I ended up with Porthos and Aramis.' 

'I have no doubt they would be delighted to hear their recruitment referred to thus,' says Treville. 'But Porthos and Aramis eventually turned out to be not entirely useless. What is this scrap of doubtless flea-ridden fluff going to do for me?'

At that precise moment, the scrap of fluff decides to oblige the Captain by pissing delicately onto the Duc's pressing inquiry about his household's safety within the bounds of Paris. It then proceeds to try and drink from Treville's goblet of wine, knocks over a bottle of ink, and stomps across a letter to the Cardinal, leaving inky pawprints in its wake. In the resulting uproar, three guards run in to see what the commotion is only to knock each other over like skittles; Treville's own secretary, bleating like a goat, attempts and fails to save the documents; Treville curses in a manner unbecoming in a gentleman and rescues the innocently blinking kitten from the flooded desk; and Athos and d'Artagnan slip out of the door and hurry away from the scene of the devastation.

'We'll give them a few days to get used to one another,' Athos says as they slink across the courtyard and into the barracks. They're not trying to hide by any stretch of the imagination but a good swordsman knows when to disengage, how to not be there when the attack arrives. Discretion is after all the better part of valour, he tells d'Artagnan who agrees vehemently. 

Aramis and Porthos eventually find them not hiding down in the refectory, having commandeered one of the long trestle tables and a small bowl of goat's milk and a cloth from the cooks. 

'What did you do to the Captain?' marvels Aramis. 'He swears he's going to have you transferred to the city guard.' 

'That's not even one of his worst threats,' says Athos, carefully squeezing milk from the cloth into the kitten's impatient mouth. 'He can't be that angr-'

'In La Rochelle,' finishes Porthos triumphantly and, despite himself, Athos winces. 

'I call that very ungrateful when all we did was give him a gift,' says d'Artagan, whisking a piece of straw in front of the kitten, and Athos scowls at him and slaps at his hand. 

'No playing until she's finished her milk,' he snaps. 'This is difficult enough.' 

'Well!' says Aramis, sounding delighted, 'this is all very domestic.' Athos transfers his scowl to his erstwhile friend. 

'Oh, it's just temporary,' d'Artagnan says, and strokes the kitten's ears gently. 'Athos was kind enough to help me find homes for some cats I found last night, and this is the last of them. Once we find her an owner, it'll be done.' He sounds a little wistful as he scratches under the cat's chin and it rubs its tiny face against his curled fingers, purring squeakily and demandingly. 

Abandoning the cloth for the time being, Athos rests his chin on one of his hands and strokes the other down the kitten's back. 

'Actually,' he says, not looking at anyone, 'I thought this one could stay with me for a while. She's not that much trouble. Far less than you lot, at any rate.' 

There are several moments of silence before Porthos snorts knowingly and Athos feels the tips of his ears warm ever so slightly. 

'Really?' says D'Artagnan. 'You really don't mind?'

'If I minded, I'd say so,' mutters Athos as the kitten yawns and lists to one side, obviously exhausted by its long day of being carried about. 

'Oh yes,' says Aramis slyly. 'Well known for using his words is Athos.' 

'Legendary,' agrees Porthos, grinning. 'A veritable Cicero.'

'Oh, surely more of a Demosthenes,' demurs Aramis, but Athos disregards this byplay as d'Artagnan leans across the table and says quietly, 'Maybe I could come round every now and then? Just to see how she is.' 

Under Athos's hand, the kitten reels around sleepily before she claws her way into his hat, left upturned on the table. All of them watch approvingly as she patrols it several times to ensure its suitability as a bivouac, before finally curling into an exhausted coil of warm, soft fur. 

'Yes,' he says, and blinks his gritty eyes and yawns as well. 'She might miss you.' 

'Yes,' says d'Artagnan, and for some reason, his ears are now pink. 'Have you- thought about what you're going to call her?' 

'Catastrophe,' says Athos promptly, and lets his mouth twitch very slightly in amusement as d'Artagnan covers up the kitten's ears protectively and frowns at him. 'Why? Have you any suggestions?'

'I thought maybe- Buttercup,' says d'Artagnan. 

'Oh good God,' says Athos. 

'Oh good God,' agrees Aramis. 

'It's a nice name,' counters d'Artagnan, looking a little grumpy. 

'Oh, let the lad be,' Porthos interjects. 'If we can't call a cat Buttercup without fear of ridicule, what kind of Musketeers are we? And, after all, the boy _is_ her mother.' 

Athos gives the entire day and his friends up as a bad lot and lays his head down on the table to emulate Buttercup in catching some sleep, but he keeps his hand tucked protectively inside the battered felt crown of his hat and over Buttercup's small, soft body as she snores vigorously. Several seconds later, fingers ghost tentatively over his as d'Artagnan strokes the back of Athos's hand and Buttercup's ears, and Athos feels his mouth curl into the smallest possible smile under the cover of his concealing arm. Well, maybe not the entire day.


	2. The Most Terrible Force of Battle Cats Ever Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> firebirdofthenight:  
> YES ATHOS, MOBILISE THE CATS  
> ALL OF THEM  
> MAKE THEM YOUR OWN PERSONAL SPY NETWORK  
> TRAIN THEM IN BATTLE  
> THEY WILL BE UNSTOPPABLE  
> THEN SOMEONE ATTACKS THE MUSKETEERS AND ALMOST WINS  
> THEY'VE CAPTURED EVERYONE  
> THEY'RE IN FULL GLOATING MODE  
> THEN THEY HEAR A RUMBLING  
> IT'S ATHOS' BATTLE CATS  
> AND THEY ARE NOT PLEASED\  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comment made me cackle so loudly when I got it (both times) that I had to write something about Athos's terrible force of battle cats. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

Felton scowls down at the bound Musketeers. Frankly, none of them seem to be taking their captivity and imminent death by torture as seriously as they should. 

'And then,' he perseveres, 'your ravaged and eyeless corpses shall be thrown into the Seine, to drift against the banks like the refuse of the streets.' 

'Very hyperbolic,' says one of them approvingly. 'I particularly like the way you combine threats of extreme violence with the promise of social ignominy.'

'I've heard better,' says the one in the bandana. 'For my money, if you want quality violence and degradation, you go to Madame de Rose-Paume down in Glatigny.' 

'Look,' says Felton, exasperated, 'Are you lot taking the piss?' 

'Oh, not at all,' the one with the carefully combed moustaches assures him. 'We are all atremble, I swear, only-' He hesitates artfully until Felton, irritated beyond measure, barks, 'What? Only what?'

'Only,' says the stripling, bracing a boot-heel against the pitted floor of the slum basement to push himself upright, 'you're probably not going to have time to follow through. Sorry.' He doesn't sound particularly sorry at all, and Felton grinds his teeth. This has all been far more trouble than he'd previously thought, and he does not want to have disappoint Milady. She has a tongue like a lash, which Felton has been on the wrong end of once or twice. And an actual lash, with which he is also unpleasantly acquainted. Love is the devil, he thinks gloomily, and turns back to the matter at hand. 

'Who's going to stop me?' he says, knowing that he is tempting fate, and yet- No one even knows the inseparables are missing and will not miss them for some time to come, he has left no trace of his movements to date, and they are all securely bound hand and foot. 

Three of them turn their heads to eye the one with the beard, the one who has infuriated Felton the most ever since he took them prisoner, the one who has been silent and stoic except for his annoyingly expressive eyebrows, the movement of which suggest that he is displeased but not particularly worried by the situation in which he now finds himself. 

'This one?' jeers Felton now, nudging the silent Musketeer with the toe of his boot. 'He's just as dead as you lot. Unless you think he has the power to effect miracles. Is that it? Is he a magician?' 

'No,' says the young one solemnly, 'but he is the Prince of Cats.' 

As if summoned, a small head pops round the door of the room and makes a _mroooww_ of enquiry. Felton frowns: he could have sworn he'd shut and locked that door. They may be deep in the criminal fastness of Rue Reaumur but he's not stupid, no matter what Milady says. 

By his feet, the silent Musketeer's mouth curls into a small smile, and the rest of them regard Felton with sympathy. 

'We're very sorry for what's about to happen to you,' says the stripling earnestly. 

'Weeeell,' says the bigger one, 'not very sorry. Mildly regretful maybe. And that's only because this cloak is new and blood's a bugger to get out of velvet.' 

And the pretty one smiles at him and says, 'I'll pray for your soul, if it's any consolation.'

'Right,' says Felton, decisively, 'I've had about enough of this triple act. This is torturing me more than it is you; I'm just going to kill you all quickly and extremely violently,' and he stoops, hefts a fallen piece of plaster and hurls it at the blasted cat in the door. It recoils, unhurt, but with an outraged yowl. 

Three things happen then in succession and very quickly. Beneath him, the silent Musketeer stops smiling. He kicks outwards and upwards, and Felton feels his kneecap dislocate and possibly break under the force of the Musketeer's boot-heel, and then as he falls to the ground, screaming and clutching at his leg, he sees a solid wave of cats falling through the door and descending upon him, hissing and clawing, and that is the last he knows for quite some time.

* * *

Athos finishes unwinding the rope from around his wrists and bends to scoop Buttercup up. She rasps her customary joyful greeting and rubs her face against his. Then she proceeds to claw her way up to his shoulder where she settles down, purring and looking across the room smugly as the other cats desultorily scratch at Felton's unconscious form a last few times. 

Aramis looks up from the prone form and reports, 'Still alive, but he'll be able to do a convincing impression of a patchwork quilt for the rest of his life.' 

'Who's a clever cat?' croons d'Artagnan as he crowds Athos's shoulder so that he can scratch behind Buttercup's ears. 'Is it you? Is it you? Yes, it is: you're the smartest, prettiest cat in all France.' 

'Sometimes it's hard to believe we're hardened men of action,' Porthos observes but he too crouches down to pet the remaining cats. 

'The Prince of Cats?' says Athos, with a raised eyebrow at d'Artagnan. 

D'Artagnan grins and goes to rescue Athos's hat from the floor. 

'Would you prefer King?' he enquires, handing it over with a flourish. 'General? Captain?' 

'Captain,' groans Porthos, covering his eyes in horror. 'We were supposed to be in the Captain's office three hours ago.' 

'Oh! I claim the right not to make the report on today's events,' says Aramis, quickly. 

'Seconded,' d'Artagnan says as quickly. 

'So say I,' says Porthos simultaneously. 

D'Artagnan crows as Athos scowls round at them all. 'Looks like it's down to you, Your Royal Highness.' 

Even Buttercup seems to be purring with amusement as Athos turns his head, but she dabs at his face with a consoling paw as they head for the door and Treville's inevitable and terrible mockery, and after that-

'Wine,' mutters Athos, darkly. 'All of the wine.' 

Next to his ear, Buttercup approves this plan loudly and settles in for the long walk back to Rue du Vieux-Colombier.


End file.
